


The Good Night

by moonblossom



Series: Prompt Fills, Remixes, Works inspired by others [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward situations, First Times, John is a clot, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sherlock is a clot, Vaguely dubious consent, nocturnal emissions - of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock keeps sneaking into John's room at night and then pretending like nothing's changed the next morning. A man can only handle so much of this before he snaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/gifts).



> Written for Khorazir, winner of my fic giveaway back in early April. Unfortunately, life, brain surgery, and the AO3 fundraiser auction got in the way so this is a bit delayed.
> 
> This is what she prompted me with:
> 
>  
> 
> _Johnlock first time stories with a slow build, awkwardness and lots of UST. Some BAMF! Sally Donovan would be great, too, because I think she’s a pretty cool character. Usually I rather go for the subtle, character-driven fics with lots of pop-culture references instead of straight out pwp, which doesn’t mean a fic shouldn’t contain some sexy-times ;)_
> 
> It's a little backwards when it comes to the slow build, and I couldn't find a way to get poor Sally involved, but I hope you like it!
> 
> Huge thanks to Trixxx for her invaluable advice and suggestions.  
> ***
> 
> NB: If you have any triggers or issues about dubious consent (not non-con, I assure you) or issues involving sleep, please read the note at the end before proceeding.

If you'd asked John Watson to make a list of the one thousand least likely things to happen overnight, _Being shagged senseless by Sherlock Holmes_ would have been way up in the nine-nineties. Somewhere between _995\. - Global Thermonuclear War_ and _1000\. - Andorra Winning the World Cup_.

And yet, that's exactly what had happened. Sherlock. Not thermonuclear war. Or Andorra. 

They'd crashed into the flat after a case, exhausted and running on fumes. Sherlock hadn't slept in nearly four days, and John had been awake for well over thirty hours - a challenge for him. They'd nodded blearily to each other and blundered into their bedrooms. John had fallen promptly asleep, and was thoroughly expecting to sleep a solid ten hours.

The murky orange light slanting in through the window had given everything in John’s bedroom a hot, diffuse glow. Sherlock had crept in without a word, crawled over John, and without a moment of hesitation, kissed him fiercely and deeply. It had been more than a little surreal. John had frozen, stock-still, trying to process what was happening, trying to determine whether or not he was dreaming. Sherlock had neatly and efficiently dismantled all of John's concerns with his tongue and wandering hands. All while remaining completely silent.

It was a little odd, Sherlock being so forceful but so quiet, but John couldn't deny that it felt utterly mind-blowing when Sherlock had taken John's sudden and needy erection into his mouth. His warm, wet, inviting, perfectly ridiculous, perfectly silent mouth. John had fisted his fingers firmly through Sherlock's hair as Sherlock brought him to one of the most violent and spectacular orgasms in recent memory. As John had lain boneless and gasping on his bed, Sherlock had crawled off of him and slipped out without so much as a goodnight, but John had been drowning in such a tidal wave of sensations that he'd barely noticed. John had been too overwhelmed and confused to even think about reciprocating, to even bother thinking about Sherlock's needs. 

As he rolls over in bed though, morning light creeping in around his blinds, it becomes apparent it wasn't necessary. His foot finds a patch on the sheets near the bottom of the bed - a patented blend of clammy, slippery, and sticky, something intimately familiar and unpleasantly reminiscent of puberty.

Suddenly it all hits him like a tonne of bricks; Sherlock snuck up here last night, gave him an utterly fantastic blow job, apparently getting himself off in the process, and left without a word. How in the hell is he going to react when John goes downstairs? Has this changed their relationship? Clearly it has, but shouldn't they have discussed it at some point? 

Groaning, John sits up and cradles his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. He can't stay up here forever, he's going to have to face the music at some point. And besides, Sherlock instigated it, he can't complain.

Decision made, he pulls his comfortable striped jumper over his head, tugs his jeans on over a clean pair of pants, and marches down the stairs with his head held high. They're adults, they didn't do anything to be ashamed of. They can discuss it reasonably over breakfast, right?

As he shuffles into the kitchen, it becomes all too apparent that it was indeed too much to ask to expect Sherlock to behave like a normal adult about any of this. He's studiously slicing up some sort of root and nods vaguely at John without truly registering his presence.

Hesitantly, John leans against the doorframe, waiting for Sherlock to make the first move. When he continues to ignore John in favour of the slivers of plant matter in front of him, John exhales sharply.

"So... last night?"

"Mm?"

"Are we going to talk about this?"

"About what?" Sherlock doesn't even sound like he's attempting to be obtuse. He genuinely sounds as though he neither knows, nor cares, about what John is talking about.

"So you're really just going to act like nothing happened?" There's a sharp, brittle edge to John's voice, a faint hint of oncoming hysteria, that makes Sherlock look up earnestly.

"John, I've got no idea what you're talking about. Contrary to what you seem to think, I cannot _actually_ read your mind."

"Augh. You're completely impossible, you know that?" Infuriated, John throws his hands in the air and kicks the door frame as he spins around and heads downstairs. He needs to get away from Sherlock for a while.

Drawn out either by the shouting or the heavy thuds of his feet on the stairs, Mrs. Hudson peers out her door.

"Something wrong, love? You and Sherlock having an argument?"

He pauses halfway down the staircase and breathes steadily through his nose, trying to calm down. John loves Mrs. Hudson, he really does. She's like the aunt you told all the secrets you couldn't share with your mum. But right now he's got no patience for her meddling, however well-intentioned it may be.

"It's nothing, Mrs. Hudson. I just need a bit of air."

Her face falls slightly, but she does her best to hide behind a cheerful grin. "Whatever he's done, John, I'm sure he didn't mean it."

"I _know_ he didn't mean it. That's exactly the problem." He stomps past her without another word, doing his best to ignore the worried creases forming on her brow.

John wanders the streets of Westminster idly until he loses track of himself, only aware of the lapse of time when he realises the sun is high in the sky. It must be nearly eleven. He buys himself a cup of terrible watery coffee from a vendor and sits on a mercifully empty bench. He's not ready to go back to Sherlock quite yet.

He's deep enough in thought to not mind the disgusting coffee as it slides down his throat. Maybe Sherlock panicked. John's well aware his grasp of emotional situations is haphazard at best. He's great at feigning emotion to manipulate people, but when it comes to real feelings he tends to get a little lost. That's probably what happened. Poor Sherlock. Thought he'd be bold, thought he'd take the initiative, and now he's got no idea how to proceed. Best to give him space then, let him come to terms with what he's done.

It's not as if John hasn't been secretly waiting for this day to come for years now. He can wait a few more weeks while Sherlock figures himself out.

Satisfied, he gulps down the rest of his coffee, and makes a face. Now that his head is clear and he's more aware of his surroundings, he’s aware that he's just paid two pounds for lukewarm dishwater. He should get home, tell Sherlock. He'll be amused. John smiles to himself. He probably looks a right tit to any passers-by, but he doesn't mind.

His feet find their way home on autopilot, as he lets his brain fill with blurry, idle images. Sherlock opening up to him emotionally in the lounge. Sherlock kissing him soundly in the kitchen. Sherlock sneaking into his room late at night again. He coughs and shakes his head, cutting the images off before they can get too graphic, but thankfully he's at the front door.

Sherlock is precisely where John left him, still at the kitchen table chopping up roots. He looks up at John and smiles, seemingly unaware that nearly three full hours have passed since John stormed out of the kitchen. All is forgotten, for now. John smiles back, content with his decision to let Sherlock take the lead.

* * *

For the next few days they are without a case. John turns in early. He doesn't even try to convince himself that he's not eagerly hoping Sherlock will join him again. This time though, they'll talk first.

Sadly, his hopes are dashed the first night, and the following, and the one after that. Nearly a week passes, and John is increasingly on edge. He's constantly horny now, uncomfortably aware of Sherlock's body in his personal space in even the most mundane ways. His dreams are filled with vague images of dark curls, of a long pale torso, of plush heart-shaped lips and he wakes regularly with uncomfortable and demanding erections, which John eagerly takes in hand. What's Sherlock playing at, anyway?

Another case comes along and absorbs their attention, and for three exhausting weeks the strange and fabulous anomaly in John's sex life is nearly forgotten. Not entirely, but nearly. It's enough that John's routine settles into a more regular twice-weekly wank in the shower, and the urges to touch Sherlock, to stroke his long back, to ruffle his hair, to push him against the kitchen wall and snog him until he's incoherent all fade into the background noise in John's head.

And then Sherlock has to go and fuck it all up again. It happens virtually the same way. The case wraps up and they plod into the house, so tired that John can't even be bothered ogling Sherlock's arse as he shuffles up the stairs ahead of him. He clambers up the second flight to his own bed and crashes hard.

When Sherlock wakes him, John is ready. He turns the bedside lamp on, the warm golden light gilding Sherlock's cheeks and making his hair glow with the subtle auburn tint that's usually hidden. His cheeks and lips are already flushed and pink. John swallows thickly, taking the whole picture in. Sherlock's in his pyjama bottoms, his red silk robe hanging loose off one shoulder. His chest is bare, a chiaroscuro drawing, all angles and light and shadow.

But most noticeable, equally highlighted by the soft light the lamp is throwing off, is Sherlock's impressive erection. It's straining the soft cotton of his pyjamas, pulling them obscenely away from his torso. He'd been downstairs, alone, and he's already so worked up. The picture makes John's throat constrict, and he can already feel himself hardening in his own pants. He should have worn something more substantial to bed.

"Sh..." John's tongue feels thick and useless. He coughs, trying to clear his throat. "Sherlock. We need to talk."

Sherlock, however, clearly has other ideas. Again, without speaking a word, he wriggles under the covers and climbs eagerly over John, kneeling astride his thighs. He drops his weight heavily, pinning John in place, and kisses him. It's another hungry, demanding, surprisingly adept kiss. With every thrumming beat of his heart John feels his cock get harder and his resolve get weaker.

Every argument he can muster up gets lost against the curl of Sherlock's tongue, and John gives up. They'll discuss it when they're done, he promises himself. Decision made, he gives himself up to the sensation of Sherlock's hot, heavy cock grinding heavily against his own. The friction is unfamiliar, John's dalliances with men in the army having never gone past hands and mouths, but it's all the more arousing for it. Sherlock's the only one who's ever gotten to do this to him, ever going to.

John's brain short circuits as Sherlock's mouth finds its way to his earlobe, and he floats along on wave after wave of sensation. Sherlock's grinding thrusts are getting increasingly erratic and John wraps his legs around Sherlock's thighs to increase the pressure.

Their climaxes hit close enough to count as one, mingling and flowing between them. As John lies flat on his back, clammy pants clinging to him, Sherlock gets up. He brushes his lips across John's forehead in a gesture that seems painfully, heartbreakingly fond to John in his addled state. With that, he straightens his dressing gown and sweeps out of the room before John can collect his thoughts.

He reaches out with one heavy arm, trying to grasp at Sherlock's retreating form, but it's too late. With a groan, John raises his head and lets it thump heavily down onto the pillow, again and again. _Tomorrow,_ he promises.

But of course, when morning rolls around, Sherlock is yet again acting like nothing's remotely different. John's torn between coddling him and smacking his forehead into the kitchen table. Something stops him though. Sherlock, for all his skill at artifice and manipulation, can't pull the wool over John's eyes effectively anymore. Not since... well...

John shakes his head and rubs the bridge of his nose. It's just that Sherlock genuinely, honestly, doesn't seem to be aware of anything that would necessitate a shift in their dynamic. John decides to try another tactic. Maybe he can coax Sherlock into it, slowly, gently.

It's as if Sherlock's a magnet, attracting John's fingers. They find their way to the nape of his neck, the skin there soft, vibrant, and warm. He drags his fingers across the protuberance of bone at the base of Sherlock's cervical spine, just dipping lightly into the collar of his dress shirt. John watches in fascination as goosebumps spread across Sherlock's skin.

"Are you quite done, John? That's incredibly distracting." Sherlock doesn't bother to look up from the newspaper. His voice is not exactly angry, but not particularly pleased either. Quickly, John pulls his hand away and shoves it into his pocket.

Fuck Sherlock. If he can take all the liberties he pleases with John's body, John should be allowed this, a simple touch. Irritably, he pours himself a cup of coffee, noting offhand that Sherlock made enough for two and left him some. It was probably an accident, but it's enough to appease John for the time being.

The cycle continues unabated; Sherlock is apparently doing his damnedest to ignore it all, to maintain the status quo and John wrestles between alternately hating Sherlock for changing things so fundamentally and hating himself for being such a coward.

Exasperated, John makes himself a cup of tea. As he's bashing about in the cabinets, he notes with petty amusement that Sherlock twitches slightly every time John slams a door, or stands too close to him. He's not itching for an argument though, so the moment his tea is done, John simply goes back upstairs, leaving Sherlock looking oddly forlorn at the table.

* * *

The third time starts much like the first two. They'd been investigating a particularly vicious blackmail/torture ring, and when they'd finally solved it - Sherlock grudgingly thanking Lestrade for his help this time - John had loudly and pointedly announced that he was going to bed and didn't want to be disturbed.

Now he's lying in bed, irritable, exhausted, and more than a bit aroused. It's as if his body's become accustomed to expecting a visit from Sherlock after a long case. He rolls onto his side, back to the door, as if mentally building some sort of a barrier. As his weight shifts, he realises with no small discomfort how hard he already is. This is ridiculous, he's like a bloody teenager.

Grumbling, he rummages in his bedside table and pulls out a small bottle of lube. He slicks up his hand and wraps it around his cock, groaning in relief at the contact. He's too tired to focus on any specific fantasy, instead letting his mind wander. If images of Sherlock, flushed and needy and desperate, happen to be the dominant theme, so be it. John's done with feeling guilty or awkward about it.

He's absorbed in it, one hand squeezing his shaft vigorously while the other alternates between kneading his balls and putting pressure on his perineum. It's been a while since he's had a good indulgent wank, and he's so it into it that when he feels a sudden warmth at his back he doesn't even skip a stroke. The battle of wills inside John this time is quick and perfunctory, moral arguments lost before they're even really begun.

Sherlock's hand slips under John's, encircling his cock in tight warmth. John feels Sherlock's body, long and bare, against his back. He's maddeningly warm, from the lips dusting against John's neck to the hot heavy prick insinuating its way snugly between John's arse cheeks.

It should feel like an intrusion, an invasion, and yet John welcomes the sensation eagerly. Sherlock's sliding easily along the length of his crack, clearly he's taken advantage of the bottle of lube John left by the bed. 

As he grinds himself along the cleft of John's arse, Sherlock peppers a line of slick, burning kisses along John's shoulder, and John feels another pang of emotion, of affection for this strange, broken man who can't express himself during the day.

John starts rocking his hips as Sherlock quickens the motion of his hand. The two of them fall into a smooth rhythm, Sherlock pressing against John, pushing him forward, John thrusting through the tight ring of Sherlock's fingers.

Time seems to lose all sense of meaning, and John's not sure if they've been at it for minutes or hours when he feels the familiar and desperately-needed pressure of impending orgasm, low in his abdomen. Sherlock's cock stills against the sensitised flesh of John's arse, harder and hotter than ever. John can feel Sherlock twitching against him, trembling as he climaxes and splattering against the small of John's back.

It's enough to drive John over the edge too - he bites down, grinding his teeth together to keep quiet as his orgasm pulses out over Sherlock's hand. They lie there in silence, John doing his best to keep the angry thoughts from flooding back now that the moment is over. He feels a rush of cold air as Sherlock pulls away from him and sits up.

"Sherlock, please... stay?"

Sherlock though, bastard that he is, merely smiles down at John. It's a strange little smile, not quite meeting his eyes. He gets up and heads back down the stairs, leaving John to fume and glare at the ceiling, breathing in the smell of sex and regret.

* * *

When John wakes up in the morning, he makes a vow that no matter what Sherlock is doing, no matter how much he's pretending nothing happened, they are going to discuss things. This ends, now. He sticks his head into the kitchen, but there's no sign of Sherlock.

Thankfully, he's not far. He's in the lounge, sitting at the table they use as a desk, tapping away on a laptop. _John's laptop_. Of course he is. Already at his breaking point, this proves to be too much, so John stomps across the flat and slams the lid shut. Sherlock barely manages to pull his stupid gorgeous fingers out of the way in time.

"John! I was working!"

"Of course you bloody were, Sherlock. Is everything work to you? Is it all a fucking experiment?"

The look of confusion on Sherlock's face is so genuine that for a moment John nearly believes it. He fists his hands a few times and takes a deep breath, reminding himself that Sherlock has basically made a career of being disingenuous.

"Don't look at me like that. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"John! I am loath to admit it and I am only going to say this once, but I legitimately have _no idea_ what you're talking about." Sherlock laughs harshly, a barking cough from the back of his throat. It's sharp and cruel-sounding in John's ears.

"Sherlock, if this is your idea of a joke, it's bloody terrible." John isn't going to break down in front of Sherlock. He's not. He's not. He sticks his trembling hands into the pockets of his cardigan and leans against the desk to steady himself. Sherlock may be a giant dick, but even he wouldn't go this far. "Sneaking into my room, kissing me, cuddling me. Giving me the best fucking blow job of my life... Just to, what? Have a laugh at my expense? Look at poor stupid John and his poor stupid pedestrian _emotions_." He realises he's shouting loudly and cuts himself off, hoping Mrs. Hudson hasn't overheard.

His outburst is met with stony silence, broken by the sound of Sherlock pushing a chair towards him. He stubbornly ignores the chair and looks down, expecting another volley of snide denial or outright abuse from Sherlock. Instead, Sherlock's features are wide with shock, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. It makes John both irrationally gleeful and mildly uncomfortable to see him so unsettled.

"That... that happened?" His brow furrows, the horizontal crease on the bridge of his nose that John loves so much making an appearance. John feels a pang in his chest, an urge to reach out and stroke it with his thumb. Angrily, he bites the inside of his cheek and reminds himself that he's still furious with Sherlock.

"What about the other times?"

John scowls. "So you admit there were other times! Finally!"

"How many, John?"

John rolls his eyes. "Like you don't know."

"How many?!" His voice is icy.

"Tw--" John stutters, thrown by the abrupt change in Sherlock's demeanor. He's still pale and clammy, but there's a red blotchy flush creeping across his throat now. "Two more. Three all told."

"I... I rubbed myself against your penis."

"The vernacular you're looking for is _frot_. Yes. And then you wanked me off while grinding yourself against my arse."

At this, Sherlock bursts out in a cascade of hysterical laughter. He doesn't sound remotely amused though. He freezes, his eyes staring off into mid-distance, and John can tell he's had some sort of epiphany.

"But you reciprocated!"

"Of course I bloody did, you giant cock. Why do you think I'm so upset right now? You kept dragging me along, using me like that, and I have no idea what's going on or where we stand. I have no idea why you did it." John's thighs are trembling at this point, vibrating with barely suppressed rage. Sherlock is grinning like a madman, the stress gone and replaced with what looks like happiness. What the fuck is wrong with him?!

"Sherlock, can you please, for the love of god, just tell me what the fuck is going on?!" He eyes the chair warily, torn between a need to sit and a need to not admit he needs it.

"John, can you forgive me? I believe I know what's going on here."

John gives in and sinks down onto the chair, his legs having given up trying to hold themselves steady. "Well at least one of us does!"

"In your medical studies - did you ever come across something known as Arousal Parasomnia?"

Something about the words click in the back of John's head. He whips his head around, studying Sherlock's face. "So you're telling me... you were asleep?! Every time?!"

Sherlock nods, grinning as if he's just solved a great puzzle. John's not sure whether to kiss him or punch him.

"I've been attracted to you for a long time, John. But you've been so adamant about your heterosexuality, so quick to correct people who assume we're a couple. I've never had to deal with prolonged interests or attractions like this before, and I suppose my subconscious decided to take charge." He pauses, staring off into the distance again. His cheeks are flushed and he's biting his lip in an utterly vulnerable and endearing manner, and John feels his fury dissolving.

"I had vague memories the following mornings, but I chalked it up to particularly vivid dreams. How was I to know I was actually going through the motions? When I woke up I was usually sticking to my pyjama bottoms in a way that led me to believe that I'd just had an exceptionally vivid one. I simply assumed my body was dealing with the attraction in a reasonable manner. I, of all people, should know not to rely on assumptions." The flush across his cheeks as he says this proves to be too much for John, and he reaches out and runs his thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone. It's warm and soft, and Sherlock leans into the contact.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Sherlock doing his best to avoid eye contact, the goosebumps along his neck where John had stroked him... If he really thought he'd been having particularly vivid sex dreams about John, of course he'd be mortified. It's then that the consequences of what John's done strike him. He feels his heart sink into his stomach and the blood in his veins runs cold.

"But then... Sherlock... You-- you weren't awake. You weren't aware. You didn't consent to any of this!" He drops his head, bracing it in his hands. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice is tinny, rising in pitch with each apology. "I'm sorry. You've... that wasn't... your first?"

"John..." Sherlock's voice is gentle, unfairly gentle, more than John deserves. "You're an uncommonly good man. Of course you'd have a crisis of conscience about this." Sherlock reaches out and places a warm, solid, steadying hand on John's knee. John studies his profile out of the corner of his eye, and the bastard is smiling again. John can't help it, he smiles too.

"First of all, no, that was not my first time. It's not something I seek out, but there were a few times, in Uni. Don't worry, my honour is unharmed. Secondly, do you forget it was I doing all the active pursuing? If our encounters all happened the way I remember, you were... surprisingly passive."

John chuckles quietly at that. Sherlock's right - even in his sleep, he felt the need to be in charge. Some of the weight lifts off John's shoulders, and Sherlock keeps talking, rubbing John's knee in a soothing manner.

"I assure you, had I been conscious and presented with the same opportunities, things would likely have unfolded in a similar manner. So your concerns, while noble, are entirely unfounded. Now, I realise this is probably not the most conventional order of things, but why don't you come into my bedroom and I'll show you exactly how much I consent to this."

**Author's Note:**

> *** This story involves arousal parasomnia, more commonly known as sexsomnia. Sherlock is soundly asleep and unaware while he is seducing and having sex with John. I avoided notes and tags at the top because I wanted it to be a slow reveal/surprise, but I am aware that this might make some people uncomfortable, which is why the note is here.


End file.
